


Bishgada

by CAPSING



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Gore, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-20 13:52:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2431223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CAPSING/pseuds/CAPSING
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter was having the worst day the author could've come up with - and that's even before he accidently killed Deadpool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bishgada

**Author's Note:**

> [Translated into Russian](https://ficbook.net/readfic/3997385) by the amazing [Moriell](https://ficbook.net/authors/748138). THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!  
>  *  
> For [this prompt](http://spideypoolfanfics.tumblr.com/post/72113432711/since-peter-is-actually-so-strong-that-he-has-to).
> 
> Attention my fellow gore-squirmish-friends – the gory parts are after Deadpool's death.
> 
> SPECIAL THANKS to my crappy internet connection, that basically left me no choice but to finish this.
> 
> While reading, you can listen to [the song that kept on playing in my head while I wrote this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gH476CxJxfg).  
> For enhanced experience, put it in on repeat for twenty hours.

Peter was having one of those days.

 

It starts with the unfortunate realisation that something isn't quite right – as he wakes up refreshed and well-rested, having skipped patrol duties the night before. In his left leg, his gastrocnemius muscle reminds him it wasn't happy with his performance in the fight with Doctor Octopus two days prior. It cramps unexpectedly, cutting his languid stretching short. His hand gropes around the bed for his glasses – thankfully not broken in his hasty crash to the mattress the night before – finding them at the pillow area. He puts them on and blinks owlishly, letting the smudged shapes dance and realign into defined forms and objects while he rubs his aching calf.

As his brain slowly catches up with reality, he notes that his room is brighter than it should be at six thirty in the morning, washed in cold sunlight – and the fuzzy lines on the digital watch upon the nightstand are turning into actual digits with a terrifying new meaning.

 

Naturally, his alarm didn't go off.

He's late before he even tossed away his pajamas to grab some fresh clothes. He has no time to shower, so he attempts to dampen his body odor with his deodorant. The canister is suspiciously light when he picks it up. A button press away – and Peter finds out he needs to visit the nearest convenience store to restock.

He jogs to the fridge while tugging on a pair of mismatched socks, and mentally adds orange juice, cornflakes and bread to the shopping list. His stomach growls in protest, but Peter ignores it as he picks his bag and rushes to the bus station – just in time to witness the driver shutting the doors and driving off. He watches dejectedly as the bus grows smaller by the minute, and so he doesn't notice as the momentum leads his new sneakers to be christened with fresh dog poop.

He groans loudly enough to make a small old woman to frown in his general direction and mutter under her breath. Then he remembers he forgot to brush his teeth, and clamps his mouth shut.

 

After a stressful train-ride in which one of his earbuds decides to ascend to the great earbud-heaven in the sky and leave its sibling in this plain astral plane, Peter finally manages to get to school. He rushes to catch the start of the third period.

 

He stumbles into class, panting – but his stammered apology falls on deaf ears – as the gleeful Mrs. Byrd stands before him.

Mrs. Byrd is a petty, bitter woman, who also happens to be a Biology teacher. She has made it her life goal to make Peter's high-school life as miserable as her limited authority over him allows, ever since he tactlessly corrected her during a lesson in his junior year.

(In retrospect, Peter thinks he should've let the rest of his class spend their adult lives under the assumption that spiders were, indeed, insects).

She grins maliciously (as much as the botox allows her facial muscles), before delivering a five-minute rant about responsibility, the importance of education and how Peter should be set as an example.

She gives him detention.

For being three minutes late.

 

The awaited lunchtime descends upon the class with a horrid ring, along with the discovery Peter forgot his lunch money. MJ has been down with the flu for the past week, so he doesn’t have anyone to borrow money from. Halfway to the cafeteria, disgruntled and hungry, he turns on his heels to make his way back to class, and slams face first into Flash.

Flash, being the kind wonderful person he is, spills the contents of Peter's school bag along the hall and out the window, before throwing Peter's handwritten assignment to the nearest trash-can. Then he theatrically announces he's not that thirsty anymore, and dumps his overly-expensive-coffee into the same trash-can. The liquid soaks into the papers, smearing the ink – making them unsalvageable. Peter takes a deep breath as he collects his remaining belongings back into his bag, and cheers up as he manages to find a single blank page.

He starts scribbling nonsense onto the paper. By the fourth paragraph, the pencil snaps in half in his hand.

 

Over the next period, Peter gets a disappointed look from Mr. Roberts and a matching F.

*

Several torturous hours later, hungry and worn, Peter drags himself home, while his brain experiences unnatural blankness after an hour of staring at nothing.

The front door, with its chipping blue paint, never looked so brilliant - the most proper usage of wood mankind has ever initiated. He sticks his hand into his bag, only to discover his key is gone – probably laying somewhere along the school grounds – and his dear old aunt took the spare one they keep beneath the doormat.

Peter feels a vein throbbing somewhere in his face. He can't tell if it's his forehead for sure. Peter weighs his options before deciding he can get in through the window in his room – which Aunt May apparently decided to lock before leaving to her arrangements. He eventually has to shove himself through the narrow bathroom window, which is way too small, causing him to chaff in all the wrong places.

Frustrated, he pushes himself in with a bit too much force – and slides feet first into the toilet, which is, of course, wide open.

(At least it was flushed.)

Peter holds a pair of soaked white sneakers in his hand, and thinks it couldn't get any worse than this.

 

Unfortunately for Peter, he finds himself very, very wrong.

While there is no comically-timed thundercloud packed with rain in the distance, a few hours later Spider-Man finds himself facing one of the most disgusting things he ever had the dubious pleasure of encountering – a sewer monster.

Composed solely from the runny contents of New-York's drainage system.

 

Hitting it isn't getting him anywhere – it dissolves beneath his punches, slipping between his webs only to rise angrier and feistier. He has to keep it away from the citizens who can't seem to stay away, while anxiously considering he might not have what it takes to defeat it.

To top it all – the whole ordeal is so _very_ disgusting.

Peter may be a teenaged boy, but he still abides to minimal hygienic standards (very minimal, considering the crusted, moldy pizza that has been left abandoned under the study notes on his desk, for the past two and a half weeks). He makes a conscious effort not to think about what he's covered with as he turns sharply, barely avoiding getting squished.

He manages to defeat the monster with the help of the Fantastic Four – and wasn't that an ego boost. Johnny spends a few minutes laughing at his expanse before clamping his fingers on his nose dramatically, telling Peter he can help him burn the suit later on.

Peter webs him in the face and takes off, bitterly noting he smells like something even a mother-skunk wouldn't be able to love. His stomach whines as he passes above a few food-carts, but his appetite is lost for the evening. At the relative solitude of a high roof a few miles south, he lets himself remove his mask. He wipes his sweaty brow and dripping nose, gulping the fresh cold air with greed.

 

"Really now, Spidey! What's with those sound effects, some people are trying to get some work done here."

He freezes.

 _'No'_ , Peter thinks. ' _No, please God and all other available deities, please don't do this - Santa, I've been a good boy this year –'_

But he turns and there's Deadpool, cheerfully waving at from the floor near the ledge, where he lies holding a long black rifle, complete with a tripod and a scope.

"Now hush down pumpkin, you're distracting enough as it is, and I need to concentrate for my next magic trick."

Peter closes his eyes. He inhales through his mouth. Exhales through his nose.

He repeats it several times, slowly – but not too slow, seeing as next to him Deadpool is a few moments from offing someone.

He tries to pull the mask back on to keep-face, but his nose strongly objects, making his eyes tear-up. Once freed, it doesn't agree to return to the stuffy air of the spandex. He grimaces and keeps it off. Ever since that time Johnny _accidently_ set him on fire, Deadpool knows how he looks like, anyway.

(Peter freaked out for about a minute before realising he's as plain looking as looks go, and that without his name, Deadpool's chances of finding him in New York are equal to the chances of finding an empty seat in a Tom-Hiddleston-fan-meeting.)

 

"Deadpool." Peter acknowledges, attempting diplomacy first, biting back a frustrated sigh. "I'm really not in the mood for this."

His comment just seems to open a vortex to the unholy pit of doom that's labeled as Deadpool's mouth.

"For blood money? Shame for you Spidey-boy, but you see, I really _need_ this cute set I saw at 'Deborah Marquit' but that shit's expensive and did you ever wonder why is lingerie so expensive if it's so little fabric but somehow it costs more than a strait-jacket and isn't half as comfy? Anyway I'm but a tiny screw in the mean-lean-capitalistic-machine and _I want it_ anyhow so just let me get this one teeny-weeny bullet travel through this scumbag's brain and I'll let you experience the benefits of said future purchase maybe even put on a private show who knows for the right amount of tacos I wouldn’t say no and that way everyone wins!"

Deadpool says all that without pausing for a moment. Peter wonders how long he'd have to squeeze his throat before Deadpool chokes, while taking another deep breath himself.

"Wade." He tries. "I've had a really, _really_ –" he feels it's crucial to stress that part "– long day, and you and I both know I won't let you shoot this person, scumbag or not. How about we'll skip the part where I beat you and web you up and you'll just give this thing up and go home."

"But what's the fun in that!"

Anger creeps into Peter's vexed mind before long. Deadpool is a jerk, sure, but he had his good moments far in between. With a considerable time-gap from one to another, but still. Like the time where he took a bullet for him (and shoved Peter face first into the asphalt), or when he kept the Hulk busy (by being a voluntary rag-doll) while Peter and the police evacuated the area.

Why couldn't he be having one of those good moments today?

He shortly regards the front of the parallel building. He tenses when Deadpool turns from him, adjusting his pose. Deadpool presses his cheek against the rifle and his ankles closer to the ground.

"Be with you in just a sec."

Peter laments the fact he makes a crappy diplomat.

 

Legs first, Peter jumps just as Deadpool takes his shot. With a delicate application of the right angle and force upon the rifle, the bullet hits a flowerpot and shatters the windowsill. The glass that's falling down on innocent bystanders is collateral damage, but at least whoever Deadpool's been hired to kill still have their brains intact. Hopefully, they'll be using it to quickly scramble for their lives.

 

Peter's spider-sense starts blaring in his head just as he lands. He turns.

"I told you not to disturb me." The childish tones Deadpool keeps when he's spouting his usual nonsense is gone, leaving a menacing gravelly low bass.

An instant later, and the light that's reflected from the blades of his drawn katanas makes Peter's stomach tie itself to knots. Deadpool charges forward, and Peter hastily falls back, shooting a web that is effortlessly parted by the blades.

 _'Think!'_   Peter urges himself.

His options and tactics are sourly limited by his surrounding – no tactic gives him any height advantage as there are no walls to climb and the roof itself is bare from possible shields. There's just one small structure about twenty feet from him, probably the emergency exit – but it's not tall or wide enough to offer any help, nothing Deadpool can't easily overcome and even turn to his favor. Peter quickly adopts a weak-defensive-strategy– shooting a web and retreating, while searching for a way out of under Deadpool's wrath. He can't even start to attempt to cocoon the man, not given enough time to attack as he ducks and rolls along the roof's floor.

 

At these moments, on this roof, Deadpool is not the same guy who offered him a hot dog that one time after Peter sprained his wrist. Neither is he the man who made embarrassing comments about Peter's looks when he saw him unmasked, attempting to lighten the mood. The Deadpool that is currently cutting Peter's webs to ribbons is an indomitable foe with every intent to hurt Peter to the best of his ability. And he holds considerable ability in this field.

Spinning away from a stray blade, Peter feels a tang of disappointment; he’s not sure whether it’s aimed at him for letting his guard down around a notorious maniac, or at the latter.

 

Fighting seems much longer when you're the one doing it – and Peter's brain tries to juggle between staying alive under Deadpool's frenzied state and getting the hell out of there. Deadpool jumps, leaps and spins with startling suddenness; the katanas cut through the air in effortless movements, like natural extension of his arms. Deadpool's unpredictable moves look like a drunken capoeira mixed with the gesticulation of a temperamental chef on the verge of an aneurysm. The odd combination somehow looks like a new form of art, which Peter would've surely appreciated more from anywhere but the performer general vicinity.

Worn both physically and mentally, Peter's foot lands wrong by an inch, and that costs him – a blade slashes his thigh in a shallow cut. Peter hisses and flinches away clumsily. He hates cuts far worse than any other wound-type – they sting and burn and get infected (not to mention the awful possibility of _stitches_ ). And that's another hour he'll have to spend stitching his suit up –

"Sorry Spidey, didn't mean that!" Deadpool chirps, before his voice drops once more.

"I actually wanted to cut your leg off."

 

And just when Peter thought his day _really_ couldn't get any worse, he presses his fingers to his palm –

 

 

To find his web shooters ran out.

 

Now Peter really panics, because he's not all that sure he can take Deadpool in close combat, especially when the rest of his sanity slipped through his ears and left him with one sword in each hand.

Deadpool is a maelstrom of blades and death which Peter attempts to avoid the best he can; Peter is agile and limber, but his moves are not polished and precise – he never plans the exact spot he’ll land on or the next maneuver he’ll perform, just acts in the nick of time.

Deadpool, however, is a proficient mercenary with a reputation that would make people think twice before crossing him.

Peter's movement is brought by instinct and inhumanly fast reflexes – but Deadpool is a highly-trained professional with years-worth of experiences of maiming and killing, which he pours into a flood of brutality heading Peter's way. 

Deadpool has more than a decade of slaughter under his customized belt – and Peter's skin is no match to the kiss of sharp metal, tissues still as fragile as the Average Joe.

 

He's just an American teenager who is almost failing Biology.

 

The concrete chaffs against Peter's palms as he performs a sloppy somersault, mind racing to come up with any sort of tactic against the chaotic attack he is under. A glance to the side costs him another shallow cut across his chest – the cost of gathering enough to conclude the other roofs are too far to leap to. Trepidation courses through Peter’s actions, every time he twists away, growing desperate.

Hearing his own heart thumping frantically in his chest, Peter belatedly notes how scary Deadpool is when he's not talking – his mask is blank and emotionless as he charges at Peter time and time again.

 

Peter's heart skips a beat when a blade manages to graze his hair while he's midair.

Time seems to slow down to a crawl as Peter looks at the strands falling aimlessly through the air, at Deadpool's hand flipping one katana, intent to grab it and thrust forward, right into Peter's guts.

The adrenaline is pumping through his veins, the spider-sense in screeching inside his brain, and Peter thinks that with the way this day has been going there is a good chance it'll be the last day of his life, which is a rather frightening thought to have.

 

His second thought is –

_'I'm gonna die a virgin.'_

 

 

It's barely a blink.

 

His right leg lashes out on its own, sending an uncoordinated kick that hits at the dead center of Deadpool's chest. It's a surreal moment. Peter hears someone snapping a wishbone while he feels the sole of his boot sinking slightly forward. He feels his jaw slack as he registers Deadpool gliding away from him, hands dropping his katanas as they unclench, before crashing into the wall of the emergency exit loudly. Cracks cackle into shape in sharp long lines along the bricks, coughing out a halo of dust that surrounds the man, before he slips downwards.

Peter lands the wrong way, stumbles and ends up falling on his ass; a painful impact shudders through his tailbone. His foot is still tingling with warmth.

It all takes no longer than a second, and it takes a few more before Peter realizes what happened. What he's done. He gets up and rushes to Deadpool's side, terrified.

 

It's even worse up close.

Deadpool's listless mass is sitting in a puddle of blood that's expending by the minute. There's a significant splatter of blood on the small crater on the wall behind him.  Bones are jutting out from everywhere, ripping out of the suit, and Peter's never seen someone's head hang from their neck in this angle.

 

" _Jesus_."

Peter hovers above him, feeling small and completely helpless.

"Deadpool?" He tries, crouching next to him.

"Wade?" he places his hand carefully on the non-broken shoulder, head swimming, mouth dry.

"Wade, wake up. Talk to me."

He doesn't know what to do – you're not supposed to move someone with spinal injuries, which Peter's sure Wade's got according to the cracks in the wall he's leaning against, and the only way he'll be able to get Deadpool to receive proper medical attention is by carrying him down this building, and after that –

He leans forwards, carefully pressing his ear against Deadpool's chest. His ear strains to catch even the faintest susurration of a cardiac sinew, but there's just his own labored breathing and the heavy, coppery scent of blood.

Deadpool's not breathing. Peter leans back, blinking rapidly as his eyes start to sting.

A siren blares in the distance, and something catches down Peter's tight throat.

"Wade, come on. _Please_."

The minutes pass, and Wade is not waking up.

Peter pulls at his hair and takes several deep breathes. He should take off Deadpool's mask, but he can't – that's – you can't take someone mask off, but he _has to look at his face_ , maybe he just didn't hear – maybe – maybe CPR…

Brimming with compunction, Peter's shaking hand reaches to tug at the seam of the mask, slowly pulling it free and upwards. He gets to see blood trickle down from between pale thin lips –

His wrist is caught in grip which sends his bones grinding against one another.

"I may seem easy, but I don't put out on the first date."

" _Wade_ ," Peter chokes out, leaning forward in an attempt to warp his free hand around the man's shoulder – only to flinch back when he notices it's the one that's been cut open, ivory peaking beneath torn muscles and flesh.

Deadpool releases Peter's wrist in favor of assorting himself back. He pats himself with his non-broken arm, before pushing a bone back to its place with a gut-wrenching squelch. He prods the skin and muscle around the wound, making it seem like it's a part of a regular procedure he had long became accustomed with.

"I thought I killed you." Peter mutters in disbelief, watching in wonder as the skin reknits itself, like a fast-forwarded video on the Discovery channel.

"You did." Deadpool confirms. "Met with Death, had a cup of tea, caught up and shit, popped back here." He slams his palm against his shattered breastbone to knock it back to its right angle, emitting only a slight hiss.

"It was hell of a tea, too!"

Peter is rooted to place, watching in horrid fascination as Deadpool cracks his bones back to their rightful place, twisting his joints experimentally and rubbing others. He pats the healing flesh to test its elasticity, humming throughout the process, seemingly not very bothered.

He lifts his eyes from putting back one of his ribs to squint at Peter.

"Were you… crying?" his voice, now back to normal (which means it sounds like warthogs are playing tag on his vocal chords), conveys he's surprised. He leans forward, scrutinizing a shell-shocked Peter.

"You _were_! You were crying for me." His mouth stretches into a wide, toothy grin. Most of the teeth are still red with the blood he splattered a minute ago, so it's not very reassuring.

 "Spidey," he croons, "I didn't know you cared so!"

Peter blinks, the abrupt, unexplained clemency in the air adding to the daze and shock. His tear-ducts feel stiff and he fights down the urge to clear them with his thumb.

"I…"

"It's okay, it happens." Deadpool shrugs it off as he didn't just _die_ , "It was kind of hot, too! You're so scrawny, but you just kicked me and WHAM I flew and," he jabs his fingers against his sides, "I think you've broken most of my ribs! All that manhandling, I didn't know a twink like you could deliver!"

"I'm… I'm sorry about that. I don't usually…" Peter finds himself at complete loss, just so grateful to see Deadpool up and about. The only thing that comes to his mind is that in the likely case Deadpool would suddenly flip out again and attack, Peter will take his chances with that jump anyhow, because he can't deal with this again.  Deadpool's intended target was safe (at least for now), and Peter desperately wants to go on a steamy date with the shower and spend quality-cuddle-time with his bed.

 

"You must [really ruv me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gIbiKkhwXtk)," Deadpool hums, sounding pleased and oblivious to Peter's distress as he looks down at himself and adjusts more bones to place in a melody Peter wishes he could tune out or delete from his brain.

"Sure I wanted to kill you a bunch of times, but I never _actually_ went and did it."

Peter grimaces as Deadpool looks up at him, still grinning.

It's not an accusation, but the seemingly sincere statement somehow makes him feel guilty about the whole thing. Deadpool is obnoxious and crazy, Peter just experienced to what extant first hand – but Peter feels like this is somehow a big deal. Like Deadpool's admittance of the fact he considered murdering him – but rejected it, god knows why, maybe because he found a penny in a ditch – is a… _thing_.

He takes this hunch, crumbles it and throws it away to the depths of his subconscious.

 

"I didn't mean too," Peter tries weakly, having nothing better to offer.

"Well you can't take it back now that you did!" Deadpool sounds downright jolly as he starts doing basic stretching exercises, like they're in gym class in school, still sitting as he considers Peter's retort.

"But if you really feel bad about it, I guess you could buy me a beer and maybe give me a handjob."

Peter sure it's the adrenaline that still pumps blood viciously into his ears, so it's better to ask, rather than assume he just heard what he definitely did not just hear.

"What?"

"A beer, Spidey! You and me, two perfectly straight muchachos drinking beverage together and bonding over the effects of socially acceptable metabolic toxins".

"Sure," Peter agrees automatically, though Deadpool could have asked him to carry him piggyback style all around New-York for a month and he would've still said yes. It's the least he could do after apparently killing someone, who was taking it in stride.

Deadpool chuckles.

"Well _that's_ one less thing to worry about. Great to know you're legal!"

Peter isn't, but he's still going to find a way to get Wade his beer. Buying fake IDs in Brooklyn is same as buying peanuts.

(Illegal peanuts).

 

"I'm… I'm sorry about the lingerie set, too." He adds carefully. He doesn't want to aggravate Deadpool again, but he also doesn't want to keep bad blood between them over this really horrendous night. Deadpool's reputation precedes him in the vengeance department – he's known to collect grudges like a greedy raven with affinity for hoarding sparkling objects. Peter isn't getting enough sleep as it is – he doesn't want to add _Vengeance-Seeking-Mercenary_ to the ever-growing list of reasons that keep him awake at night.

To his surprise, Deadpool just shrugs in indifference once more.

"Nah, forget it. Indigo was never my colour anyway. Makes me look fat."

 

It's a brief image that crosses Peter's mind, of Deadpool's muscles poking and bulging beneath a frilly purple matched set - his mask still on, posing like a pin-up girl - that causes a flush to race up his face. Deadpool doesn't seem to notice, though, finally getting up, going over to pick his discarded katanas and dissemble his rifle.

 _'It's exhaustion'_ , Peter reassures himself. He's one small step from hallucinations as it is. That's why he keeps staring as Deadpool breaks apart the rifle smoothly and effortlessly, examining the barrel and stirring something unidentified in Peter's mind.

 

"Hot, isn't it?" Deadpool's sly comment snaps Peter from his stupor.

"That's why guns are better than most weapons – the phallic sex-appeal."

Peter chokes, swallows the wrong way, and breaks into a violent coughing fit.

"Just messing with you," Deadpool winks, caressing the barrel in a way that doesn't help Peter's lungs much.

"Now shoo Spidey, I'll pack up here and you'll do us both a favor and shower. You smell like you've swam laps in the sewers with the turtles."

"Okay," Peter nods as he pulls his mask on reluctantly, getting up himself. He makes his way to the ledge to climb down and somehow make his way home with no spare change of clothes. Maybe he'll somehow manage the subway. The pictures of citizens cringing away from Spider-Man on public transportation would probably give J.J a hard-on.

 

"I guess I'll see you –" he turns to face Deadpool, who cuts him off.

"I'll come pick you up tomorrow at eight."

"Pick me up?" He asks, frowning beneath his mask. "Where from?"

Deadpool chuckles again, shaking his head as he places the dissembled rifle-parts in a long, black suitcase.

"Yeah, he's adorable when he does that that. Don't be silly, Peter! Eight PM tomorrow, beer's on you!"

 

For a very brief moment, Peter considers throwing himself off the building, webs-be-damned.

 

 

 

The sky rumbles ominously.

 

Peter crawls down the building to the heaviest downpour the city's had in the last month.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Now with [AN ACTUAL COMIC PAGE ](http://axiaspideypool.tumblr.com/post/109135710438/its-a-better-drawn-version-of-eh-a-post-i-just) by the Spectacular [Axiaspideypool](http://axiaspideypool.tumblr.com) ₍՞◌′ᵕ‵ू◌₎♡~
> 
> All feedback would be greatly appreciated :)
> 
> Bishgada means 'bad luck' in Aramaic; it's also a noun meaning 'an unlucky person'.


End file.
